Cedar

Woke up Monday. Six-foot cedar

where the chain-link used to be.

He didn't warn me. Didn't need to—

his yard, his property.

We used to nod across the wire.

Nothing deep. Just recognition.

Now I smell his grill, the fire,

but the man's behind his own partition.

Raw blond wood against the sky.

Already throwing shade I didn't ask for.

Something small just up and died.

Not a friendship. Just the nod next door.